


Generation Kill v2.0: The Bahad

by Roga



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: AU, Alternate Reality, Crack, Gen, Israeli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-17
Updated: 2009-03-17
Packaged: 2017-10-05 12:43:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/41840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roga/pseuds/Roga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Generation Kill Israeli Army AU, written for sabrina_il.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Generation Kill v2.0: The Bahad

**Author's Note:**

  * For [marina](https://archiveofourown.org/users/marina/gifts).



> Israeli AU, Brad's team as staff at an IDF training base. Lots of Hebrew and local references, with a [short glossary of terms here](http://roga.livejournal.com/230611.html#cutid1), for anyone interested in reading. [](http://sabrina-il.livejournal.com/profile)[**sabrina_il**](http://sabrina-il.livejournal.com/), hope you enjoy :-)

 

A small, plastic plaque is nailed to the center of the green door. In dirty brown Arial font, it reads: PLATOON 2 -- STAFF. Evan takes a breath, mentally skims over his notes again, and knocks.

From inside the office, someone shouts: "What?" Another voice retorts, "Don't be such an ass, Trombley."

"It's Evan Wright," Evan says, raising his voice a little. "From _Bamachaneh_. I'm here for the article."

A moment later, a soldier opens the door. "Ahlan, sorry," he apologizes, letting Evan into the office. "Fick told us you'd be coming, Trombley just doesn't have any manners --" he indicates the guy sitting on an empty ammo box, cleaning his gun with an oily piece of flannelette. "And Brad -- well." The guy shrugs, waving a hand vaguely. "Brad probably couldn't care less either way."

Brad Colbert, Evan recalls, Staff Sergeant. His eyes scan the room and find the only Staff Sergeant there, sprawled across the low sofa, with his legs resting on top of an office chair and his arms crossed behind his head. A pair of earphones dangle from his ears to the iPod in his front pocket, and his eyes are closed, the embodiment of serene; they call him the Iceman, Evan remembers.

"Anyway, I'm Walt," the guy -- Walt -- says, moving over to the far end of the office, where an electric kettle standing on a metal cabinet is releasing steam. "You can make yourself comfortable, I was just making myself a coffee if you want one."

"Thanks," Evan says. "Black, no sugar." Evan actually prefers instant coffee, one sugar, even if it's only Elite's tin canned coffee instead of the Taster's Choice they keep in their Tel Aviv offices, but there are certain sacrifices one has to make, to make the right impression on Matkalists. Giving up lattes is one of them.

As Walt pours the water, Evan takes in the surroundings. Two desks, one computer; Angelina Jolie winks at him from the desktop. Two big cabinets lean against the wall, the first locked, the second spilling over with files and folders. A bunch of combat vests and helmets are piled in the corner, along with two Tavor rifles, one tossed on the floor, the other leaning neatly against the wall. The walls are covered in everything from motivation posters to framed photos to a whiteboard listing a series of tasks, and sunlight streams in through the half-open shades of the window, pouring strips of light across Trombley's improvised gun-cleaning station and Colbert's still figure on the sofa.

Suddenly, the door blows open with a bang. "Man, I fucking stink," the guy who just stormed in states loudly. His BDUs are rumpled, sagging from his thin frame like they're two sizes too big, and he tosses his gun aside, letting it fall to the floor with a clatter. Trombley gives it a dirty look. "Fucking trainees," the guy complains. "The amount of sweat these kids generate in a single hour can raise the Kinneret level by a fucking meter. They should issue us nose plugs just setting foot in a classroom with them, smells worse than a fucking moshav."

"Ray," Colbert speaks up for the first time, not opening his eyes, "the reason you stink is that you only shower on days that end with zayin. Do us a favor and buy some deodorant instead of using baby wipes on your armpit, then we'll talk."

"I'm sorry if we can't all afford Hugo Boss body spray or Lady Speed Stick or whatever the fuck perfume your mom buys you in Herzliya Pituach, Brad." He crumples to the sofa, nudging aside Trombley's gun parts on the floor with his boots for more leg room. "Some of us actually have to live off the so-called military salary which isn't even fit to feed breakfast to a Thai worker, let alone buy extravagancies that would improve the fragrance that comes from spending 25 hours a day with fucking trainees. I swear, this is how the army works, see, to keep us from getting laid. Because they want us to stay sharp, right? I bet Godfather has an official directive. Mission: keep shooting and PE instructors from giving staff a second glance. Method: prevent staff from ever obtaining any remotely useful personal hygiene products. Create living environment reminiscent of Hiria."

"They usually give Brad a second glance," Trombley remarks.

"That's because Brad is two meters tall and freakishly Aryan. That's why the trainees call him the Nazi."

"Ray," Walt says, looking embarrassed. "We have company."

Ray -- _Person_, that's it -- looks up, noticing Evan for the first time. "Who are you?"

"Evan Wright, from _Bamachaneh_," Evan says again.

"Oh, right, right," Person says, "You're the reporter. Nate said you were coming."

"Actually," Trombley says, "Fick said to make sure Ray keeps his mouth shut and doesn't get us into a war with Syria or something."

Person rolls his eyes. "Please, as if anybody uses _Bamachaneh_ as anything but stake out ass-wipes anyway."

"Ray," Colbert says peacefully, "play nice."

"Yes, Dad," Person says. He checks his watch. "Anyway, I gave them fifteen minutes to finish preparing their shit for Nate's inspection, and me and Walt are gonna join him, so I have twelve more minutes here before I'm gonna be gone for the next three hours. Reporter, anything you wanna ask?"

Even's not really in a hurry; he's going to stick around for two or three days anyway. "Why does an inspection take three hours?" he asks.

Person throws him a scathing look, like he's one of his trainees, which sends Evan right back to boot camp. "These kids have been in the army for two months. They _will_ fuck this up. And Uncle Ray will have to teach them that being in the desert is no excuse for having _dust_ on the _sidewalk_, because in the words of the regrettably 80's but eternally relevant Status Quo, they're in the army now, which, as we all know, is not a very nurturing environment for concepts like logic. So they will have to run their laps and do their push-ups and redo the inspection again, until Nate is satisfied."

"You don't agree with this approach?" Evan asks.

"We're in the fucking desert," Person says, "of _course_ there's going to be dust. Unfortunately, Master Sergeant Sixta subscribes to the philosophy that sisyphic labor empowers the soul, or some other kind of sadistic bullshit, so we tell them to sweep sand into neat piles that'll scatter over their campground at the next breeze, instead of teaching them how to execute rescue operations so kids like Gilad Shalit don't have to rot in a Hamas cell for three years."

"'Said Staff Sergeant Person, off the record'," says a new voice firmly from the door. It's Lt. Fick, looking tired and a little annoyed. "Brad, I thought I told you to keep an eye on him." Colbert barely reacts, just opens his eyes and gives Fick a flat look, and Fick turns to Evan with a sigh. "You're not gonna print that."

"Of course not," Evan says. He writes for the military newspaper, not for _Ha'aretz_. He's not here to investigate the way things work; he just needs to write a motivational fluff piece. Although, with the attitude towards training this staff is showing, it's not going to be very easy.

"Yeah," Fick says, and Evan thinks there may be a hint of regret in his voice; whatever Fick really feels about the situation, though, he won't say in front of his staff. "Brad, did you take care of the equipment for tonight's march?"

"Yes, sir," Colbert murmurs.

"Do we have a medic?"

"Poke's got it taken care of." It feels a lot like Colbert is on a tropic island somewhere inside his head, and all of them are just trespassers, rudely disturbing his peace.

"Did they get enough--"

"Nate," Colbert says, opening his eyes to stare at Fick. "If you keep confirming everything I do you will develop premature Captain-itis. You don't want to do that to yourself."

Fick holds Colbert's gaze steadily for a long, silent moment, one eyebrow raised. Finally, Colbert closes his eyes again, his shoulders relaxing, and says: "They got six hours of sleep last night, sir." It sounds a lot like _ Touché_, even though no conversation has actually taken place.

"Thank you, Brad." Fick's stern expression remains unchanged, but it's possible there's a note of amusement in his voice. "Ray, how much time did you give them?"

"Six more minutes," Person replies.

"Okay, I'll meet you outside," Fick says, heading out. "And Ray," he adds, raising his voice to be heard from the hall, "be polite to your guests. Offer some Bamba or something."

Person sighs dramatically. "Another example of my exploitation. Who do you think pays for our stock of Bambas? The sorry amount the IDF gives me every month goes right back to the Shekem and base vending machines, and then I don't even get to eat it myself because the army it to feed jobniks from Tel Aviv. No offense, Reporter."

"Don't mind Ray," Walt says, "he's always prissy when he gets his period."

Trombley snorts.

"Don't worry about it," Evan says. It's hardly the first time he's lost jobnik points before. "Let him roll. At the very least I'm collecting material for a future comedy album."

"Well, his bitching is getting on my nerves," Walt says. "Not to mention, it's interrupting Brad's nap."

"The Iceman doesn't _nap_, Walt," Person scolds, then smiles beatifically. "He just needs his beauty sleep. Which is not what he's getting right now, by the way," Person says, turning to Evan. "He's listening to his Berlitz Spanish tutorials on his iPod. It's very tragic."

"Why's that?" Evan asks.

"Brad here is under the illusion that he is actually going to be released in three months, and that he's going to spend the next year and a half climbing the Andes back and forth and fucking every female between 18 and 24 in South America, or however many it takes until he finds Luisana Lupilato and Camilla Bordonaba from _Rebelde Way_ and does _them_, preferably at the same time. What Brad doesn't realize," Person continues fondly, "is that he is never going to leave the army. Matkal runs too deep in his blood. You'll see. They're going to persuade him to sign on for another three months, that's how it starts, then another six, and then a year, and on and on until he becomes the oldest combat NCO in the Unit. They won't have anywhere to promote him by then, though, so they'll force him to go through Bahad 1 to become an offi--"

"Ray," Colbert cuts in, unfazed, "stop lezayen basechel and get the guy some Bamba."

Evan grins. "Really, it's okay. I don't even like Bamba," he adds.

Person's eyes widen with horror. "You know, I'm just going to pretend I didn't hear you say that," he says, his previous train of thought completely forgotten. "Next you're going to tell me you eat the Krembo cookie before the cream."

Evan gives him a questioning look.

"Ray has a theory," Walt explains, "that guys who eat the cookie first have small penises." He pauses. "You really don't wanna know."

"Probably not," Evan says, and finally sits down on one of the rolling chairs, because standing around is awkward and he really needs to put himself at ease, and also because he is suddenly feeling hyper aware of his crotch.

All of a sudden, he hears a shout from outside the window. "Sir, sir, attention, sir!"

Person, Walt and Trombley groan collectively.

"What is it, Suissa?" Trombley yells.

"Sir!" shouts the trainee, "we're out of flannelette, sir!"

Person looks at Trombley pointedly, but Trombley shakes his head, muttering, "Fuck it, my gun's still dismantled."

"I'll go," Walt sighs. Trombley cuts a few squares of flannelette from the roll he's using and gives it to Walt, who grabs a baseball cap with a "Who Dares Wins" print, slings his Tavor over his shoulder, and leaves the office.

"Trombley, how the fuck long have you been cleaning that gun?" Person asks.

"I'm setting a good example," Trombley says defensively, inserting the oiled cleaning rod into his gun's barrel and moving it back and forth a couple of times. Person stares.

"Brad, you might want to wake up," he says, elbowing Colbert. "Trombley has just managed to transform weapon-cleaning into pornography."

"Fuck off," Trombley says, throwing an oily cloth at Person -- and then turns his face to the heavens, and says, with a long-suffering sigh: "Until when?"

Evan blinks. Did he _actually_ just--?

For the first time, something seems to actually _move_ Colbert, who opens his eyes and removes his earphones, sits up slowly, and shakes his head with amazement. He and Person exchange glances. "Tell me I did not just hear that, Ray."

Person's eyes are huge. "Brad, I think you did."

"Tell me I did not just motherfucking hear a piss of a greenhorn preemie tzair _met_ ask 'until when' in _my_ office."

"Oh, Brad, don't blame Trombley for being a retard. Everyone knows that when God handed out brains, he gave Trombley loof."

"Kus both of your moms," Trombley grumbles, releasing the cocking handle of his now assembled gun with a snap. "Ray, you have two minutes, shouldn't you get going?"

Person exhales loudly, but pushes himself up off the sofa. "What's even sadder than Brad's post-army delusions," he tells Evan, getting his gun, "it that Trombley is the only guy in this office with a girlfriend. Fucking mysteries of the universe, right?" Trombley smirks a little at that. "Although the day Brad snaps out of his asak is going to be pretty sad as well. I'll bring my camera."

"Yalla, Ray, get the hell out already," Brad snaps, "you're gonna be late."

"Achi, I've got 43 seconds." Person pulls a pair of wide aviator sunglasses over his eyes. "All right, I'm gonna go get mommy and see what the kids made for dinner. See you guys later."

The door closes behind him with a click, and after a moment Evan can see him from the window, swaggering down to the campground, where, in the distance, the trainees are standing in threes.

"So Fick's the mother and you're the father?" Evan observes.

Colbert looks directly at him for the first time, and Evan suddenly notices the color of his eyes. There is really no other way to describe them than _ice_. "Ray's incestuous kibbutz upbringing didn't exactly leave him an expert on normal family structures." Colbert settles back into the sofa, recrossing his legs on the desk. "Trombley, you're doing the wake up calls for the rest of the week."

"Aw, come on," Trombley complains, "you're punishing me?"

Colbert clucks with his his tongue. "Gotta learn to respect your elders. Fifth commandment."

"Nu, Brad," he starts, but Colbert is back in his head zone again, looking peaceful and zen. "S'e-mo," Trombley mutters, shoulders slumped.

Then the office is silent, and Evan considers pulling out his notepad and starting to ask Trombley some actual questions. But Trombley looks like he's currently caught up in a bubble of shvizut, and Colbert will probably continue to be unresponsive, judging by his pose, which practically _commands_ Do Not Disturb.

"The orders for tonight's march are on the desk," Colbert says out of the blue, and Evan blinks. "Feel free to look through them. Staff briefing's at eight, rousing's at one AM. There'll be blanks and flash bombs, and you take your own stick light. It'll be fun."

Evan walks over to the desk and skims through the file. Detailed orders, with notes scribbled on the margins, check lists, notes about each trainee; looks like Colbert still does something around here after all. "Thanks."

"Tu aliento ole como los melocotones," Colbert intones evenly. Evan gets the clue.

Well, the staff are only part of the picture anyway. So he tells Trombley he'll be back later, getting a grunt in response, and closes the door of Platoon 2's staff office behind him. The sun is scorching, dead center in the sky, and his eyes sting a little from the dry, dusty air, and as he nears the campground he can hear Person's bellow, "_Position two!_", followed by the entire formation of trainees dropping to the ground, holding themselves still on their arms. A few moments later, the three commanders follow. Fick leads the push-up count; "There's no such thing as can't, there's won't!" Walt yells, and Person adds, "There's only hard in bread crust and you eat that too!" Some things, Evan reflects, never really change.

And then Person roars: "_Lift your ass, Nadav, stop fucking the ground,_" and "Suissa, I've been traveling since before you were born and I've been in countries I am forbidden by law to admit I've even been to and I have _never in my life_ encountered anyone with your supernatural ability to lose things, _put your damn hat back on_," and "Platoon 2, I hope you've all memorized your Zohar Argov lyrics because we're all gonna sing Commander Fick a song now," and Evan is pretty sure Fick is seconds away from bursting into laughter but he does a good job of hiding it.

Evan himself doesn't have any performances to put on, though. So he lets himself grin, pulls out his notebook, and to the sound of the entire platoon serenading Fick with Argov's "The Flower in my Garden", he begins to write.


End file.
